


in tongues of lilting grace

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: The bus is somewhere on the outskirts of Didcot when Aziraphale, without saying a word, reaches across and takes Crowley's hand.





	in tongues of lilting grace

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Led Zeppelin, because there's only so much Queen to go round. 
> 
> This is abysmally, astonishingly sentimental and I apologise.
> 
> I have read 47 "holding hands on the bus" fics and will joyfully read 47,000 more, so I thought I might as well write the thing despite there being no need for any more of the thing.

The bus is somewhere on the outskirts of Didcot when Aziraphale, without saying a word, reaches across and takes Crowley's hand.

It's unexpected, to say the least. Crowley can't remember the angel having ever touched him like this before, with purpose. It's always been him, hasn't it: cursing Aziraphale with grass in his hair, purely so he could then pick it out again; or, when all else failed, pulling him close under the pretence of violence, close enough to smell the petrichor and clean earth scent of him beneath the cologne.

Aziraphale doesn't touch Crowley, but now he's staring straight ahead as if this is entirely unremarkable, the gold of his signet ring warming against Crowley's hand.

Crowley is afraid to move, in case Aziraphale realises what he's doing and stops. His arm is at an uncomfortable angle, but Aziraphale has the soft hands of a gentleman and this discovery has gone directly to Crowley's head. He wants to squeeze -- to say something -- to do something -- but instead he holds preternaturally still and strives to commit every detail to memory. It's a memory, he thinks, which might keep him going for the next few thousand years.

Incredibly, it seems it won't have to. When the bus stops outside Crowley's flat, Aziraphale lets go, and Crowley feels the loss of him like a blow. But, in Crowley's sparse flat, when Crowley gallantly offers Aziraphale the bed, Aziraphale does it again -- touches him, casually. Casually! As if it's perfectly ordinary for him to thank Crowley with a hand on his shoulder, a grateful squeeze.

Crowley is lightheaded, and sleep -- which he undertakes only as deliberate sin, anyway -- won't come.

When they find the bookshop restored, Crowley really thinks that will be the end of it. He's happy about the books, of course, but laments losing the excuse to have Aziraphale in his space, in his real life where he's always been alone before. Whatever brief madness overtook Aziraphale (apocalypse aversion was, after all, a bit of a stress) it will now surely pass.

Then, as they walk through Regent's Park the following Wednesday, Aziraphale tucks his hand into the crook of Crowley's elbow, and Crowley fears he's lost his grip on reality entirely.

After that, it seems to spiral. Aziraphale takes his hand on Oxford Street as he steers them rather crossly past a badly-parked lorry. He does it on the upper deck of the number 6 bus, even though it's clearly hampering his attempts to peruse the Metro. On Waterloo Bridge, he takes Crowley's arm before crossing the road, and doesn't let go until they part. It's three weeks before Crowley dares to reach out and touch him back, purely because he thinks he might actually die if he doesn't.

  
They're in the bookshop, familiar territory, and Aziraphale is making an elaborate point about Faulkner. It's an argument they've had before and thoroughly enjoy repeating, and Crowley can anticipate every word Aziraphale will say before he says it. He used to think the angel was predictable. Then -- this.

When he curves his hand against Aziraphale's cheek, stopping him mid-sentence, he doesn't expect Aziraphale to cover the hand with his own and say "oh, Crowley, thank goodness."

"What?" Crowley croaks. In a panic, he tries to pull his hand back, but Aziraphale clutches it, stilling him. "Thank -- what?"

"Well," Aziraphale says, glancing coyly away and then back at Crowley's face, "thank _you_ , my dear, I suppose. I thought you weren't getting the message."

Crowley stares at him. "Message? What message? What are you on about?"

Something like worry crosses Aziraphale's face at this. "I've been trying to let you know," he explains, carefully. "Oh, God, I'm not -- I'm not wrong, am I? You --"

His hand lifts, as if to pull away, and Crowley absolutely cannot allow that to happen. Desperate measures are called for. "Love you, yes: passionately; totally. Is that what you mean?"

His heart is thundering in his throat, but then Aziraphale's expression clears, and it's like clouds parting to reveal the sun.

"Yes," says Aziraphale, "quite. That."

"Say what you mean, angel," Crowley growls and, after a second's consideration, kisses him.

It isn't the sort of kiss the humans like to watch on film -- not a dramatic or passionate or heated kiss. It can barely be called a kiss at all, really; just a little press of his mouth against Aziraphale's because, for some reason, it's what his human body wants to do about the way he feels, the enormity of it. But Aziraphale looks thunderstruck, breathless. Aziraphale _trembles_.

"Oh," Aziraphale says. The look on his face is one Crowley's seen him wear after a first bite of something sweet, some new delicacy Crowley's conjured for his pleasure. It's the look Eve had in the Garden, when she Knew.

"Again," Aziraphale says --  _commands_. "Crowley. Do that again."

And Crowley, just as he has for the past six thousand years, does as Aziraphale wishes.

The second kiss isn't very cinematic, either, nor the third. By the fifth or sixth, Crowley thinks they're getting the hang of it, and anyway it doesn't seem to matter much, because Aziraphale's hands are in his hair and Crowley's mouth is tingling.

"This is rather lovely," says Aziraphale breathlessly. This is very nice to hear, but unfortunately requires Aziraphale's mouth to depart from Crowley's, a state of affairs of which Crowley doesn't approve at all.

"Isn't it?" Crowley says. "Smashing. Bet I know what would make it better, though."

Aziraphale proceeds to astonish him once more by miracling away their clothes himself.

"What?" he demands, all innocence. "You were thinking it rather loudly, dear, and I quite agree. This is much better. And horizontal, I think?"

It turns out that Aziraphale has quite a lot of good ideas of his own. Crowley wonders rather crossly when he's had the time to think of them all, and why he was so intent on keeping them all to himself for thousands of years while Crowley was right there all along. Mostly, though, Crowley is occupied with the sensation of Aziraphale's sweetly curved mouth on his neck, soft at first and then biting so that Crowley writhes beneath him.

"Your skin, my darling," says Aziraphale, almost to himself, "I've always wanted -- do you like this? Crowley?"

His hands curiously, unerringly seek out all Crowley's sensitive places -- his nipples and his hipbones and the pale skin between his legs that never sees the sun -- and Crowley spreads his thighs helplessly, says _yes_ and _yes_ and _yes_.

Then Aziraphale's fingers are inside him, some sleight of hand making it easy, and this is his real magic. Crowley is full of grace, brimming with it, his body a vessel meant to give Aziraphale pleasure and marvelling in the joy of Aziraphale, finally, taking it.

"Please," he manages. Demons don't beg, but Crowley will, he thinks, for this. "You haven't said -- do you --?"

Aziraphale seems to understand, his lovely face softening. "I love you," he says. "Oh, my darling. Of course I love you."

When Aziraphale presses into him, it burns. It's good, clean: Crowley feels as if the fire of it is spreading through him as Aziraphale settles between his legs, filling him up; as if Aziraphale is burning everything else away. When he starts to move, Crowley clutches at him helplessly, Aziraphale's cock a sweet slick pressure inside of him, and Aziraphale kisses his face and his neck and his mouth, dips his tongue inside until Crowley has to break away, panting.

"I love you," Aziraphale says. Crowley can feel it, thrilling through his limbs, spreading out to the fine outer feathers of his wings, and for a moment he remembers how it felt to fly, Before. Aziraphale rocks his hips, undulates against him in a way an angel really shouldn't, and Crowley shouts as he comes, clinging, clinging.

In the street outside, the streetlights are flickering; lightning flashes briefly and Aziraphale laughs -- _laughs._ Crowley can feel it reverberate inside him, and the next second Aziraphale is coming too, open-mouthed, perfect.

"Dramatic," Aziraphale says when he can speak again, "but my flowers could do with the rain."

His cheek is pressed to Crowley's shoulder. Crowley can feel him smiling still, the curve of his mouth. He feels a bit broken open; it's wonderful and shocking and terrifying.

"Anything for you, angel," Crowley says, and means it.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [in tongues of lilting grace [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336021) by [KD reads (KDHeart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDHeart/pseuds/KD%20reads)




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